


my wild heart bleeds with yours

by okapi



Series: The Cup 'verse (Vampire Femlock) [6]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Boot Worship, Cunnilingus, Dream Sex, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, Frottage, Gender or Sex Swap, Human John, Kink Negotiation, Kinktober 2020, Menstrual Blood Drinking, Menstrual Sex, Menstruation, Oral Sex, Role Reversal, Roleplay, Rule 63, Shapeshifting, Vaginal Sex, Vampire Sherlock, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 09:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26849827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: For Kinktober 2020. Genderswapped Johnlock. Vampire!Sherlock/Human!John.1.Boot worship.John discovers a new kink.2.Menophilia.Feeding night at 221b. Oral sex. Menstrual blood drinking.3.Bloodplay.Sherlock and John go to an autumn festival. John gets lured into a corn maze. Rating: Teen4.Xenophilia.In her dreams, John's a bit of a monsterfucker. Tentacle sex, vaginal sex with a satyr in a children's nursery, and a skeleton orgy.5.Role Reversal.Sherlock and John got to a ball as Cinderella and a vampire, respectively. Fluff. Rating: Gen.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Cup 'verse (Vampire Femlock) [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/493618
Comments: 16
Kudos: 18
Collections: Kinktober 2020





	1. Boot worship

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from J. Sheridan LeFanu's novella _Carmilla_ (1872) and there will be references to it in many of the chapters. It is available [online](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/10007/10007-h/10007-h.htm) for free. It's a favourite story of mine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers a new kink. Boot worship. Frottage. Roleplay. 
> 
> For Kinktober 2020: Day 5: Boot worship.

Thick soles and sturdy heels clomped decisively on the seventeen steps. When the rude noise ceased, her shadow caressed me.

“Should I be jealous, John?”

I looked up from my reading. “Of a fictional character? That hardly seems logical.”

Wine-painted lips twitched. Delicate nostrils flared. She looked deliciously arresting in a black leather jacket with a dark grey jumper that looked incredibly soft, even from a dim distance. She wore a short dark skirt and the same tall, black leather boots of the previous evening. Seated as I was, the boots made her tower over me.

She struck a very imposing figure, and she knew how to make an entrance.

I tried to slow my quickening pulse, knowing she could, and would, detect changes in my blood, its floods and droughts and steeple-jumping, with more sensitivity than any instrument known to humankind. 

Avoiding the subject of my pounding heart, I closed the book and tapped the cover. “Is she real? LeFanu’s Carmilla?”

“No. But she is a type. All that rubbish about her very old and very distinguished family.” Sherlock rolled her eyes and gave an arrogant snort and turned away from me. “As if that mattered.”

I smiled. “Is that the meritocrat pronouncing upon the aristocrat?”

Sherlock turned quick back, her stony countenance softening with mirth. She raised an eyebrow, then laughed. She unbuttoned and rebuttoned her jacket, then unbuttoned it again, removed it, and threw it over the back of her armchair.

“Yes, I suppose it is. You don’t need to be an old vampire to be a good one.”

I let the silence fall between us, then said quietly, earnestly,

“You’re a good one, Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn’t, couldn’t, in fact, blush, but she could give a tiny shrug and look at me and then look away.

“I’m not, but I’m better with you.” 

She neared me, bent her knees, and lowered herself to the arm of my chair. She nodded at the book. “Some great lines, though.” She made her eyes wide and round and batted her eyelashes and said in a breathy voice, much higher pitched than her own, ‘If your dear heart is wounded…”

“…my wild heart bleeds with yours,’” I finished, trying to match her tone.

I leaned down, and our lips met in a sweet, chaste, hello-you kiss.

Sherlock stood.

“How did things go?” I asked.

“Fine. I wrapped up some loose ends from last night and considered a new case.”

“Oh?”

Sherlock shook her head dismissively. “Open-and-shut domestic, not worth my time.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock smirked. “Oh, I shut him, don’t worry. It’s just not a puzzle.”

I let the thin volume slide into the armchair beside me. I took a deep breath and deliver my much-rehearsed line.

“I think you liked it, what happened last night.”

“Vanquishing three very unpleasant ghouls, what’s not to like?”

“Well, yes, but I mean the charade before the vanquishing.”

“Oh? I didn’t relish you pretending to be enthralled, but it was an effective ruse.”

“I mean, the act itself, polishing your boots.”

Sherlock turned away before she said, “It’s a conventional act of submission. Ghouls aren’t known for their imagination.”

“Sherlock.”

I got to my feet. Sherlock was still turned away from me. I pressed my lips to Sherlock’s back, burying my face in the softness of her jumper, cashmere, I assumed, or something even more rare and expensive. I would’ve liked to touch the space between her shoulder blades, but I was in flat slippers and Sherlock was in heels, so I was closer to elbow-level.

My breath warmed the grey wool as I waited for an answer. Why were the little things so difficult to admit?

“I liked it, John.”

“I liked it, too. Would you like me to do it again, now, before I go to bed? I would like that. I was trying to distract myself from the thought with Carmilla. It didn’t work.”

Sherlock huffed derisively. “Of course, it didn’t.”

“Say ‘not tonight’ if you’re not keen, and that’s that. I won’t mention it again.”

Sherlock looked down and lifted each toe in turn. “I suppose they did get a bit scuffed last night.” 

“Don’t move.”

I trundled off.

* * *

“I really don’t want a thrall,” insisted Sherlock when I had returned rag, tin, and brush in hand.

“I know, and I like my free will just the way it is, thank you very much.” I smiled. “Would it help if we called it a roleplay?”

“I don’t see how. I can’t play at being a vampire when I _am_ a vampire.”

“You can play at being a bad one.”

Sherlock quirked a smile as she moved to her armchair and sat. She tapped her feet on the floor and said haughtily,

“Get to work. And I warn you, if I don’t see my reflection in them…” 

I fixed her with an incredulous look. “Your _reflection_?”

“Bad vampire, remember? Demanding, etcetera.”

“Oh, yes. I’ll do my best.”

I threw off my bathrobe and, clad in my usual sleeping attire of a men’s underpants and a sleeveless vest, went to work.

As I worked, I wondered why I liked it so much, kneeling at Sherlock’s feet, rubbing black polish in tight circles around her shoes.

“You missed a spot.”

“Where?”

“There.” Sherlock pointed.

“Oh, yeah.”

Sherlock had said ‘you missed a spot’ but I knew she had meant ‘I love you’ and ‘I would dearly love to kiss the nape of your neck, but for now, I’ll content myself with looking down your cleavage.’

“Put your back into it, thrall.”

The delivery was so deadpan that I laughed out loud.

“No laughing. Your will is not your own, remember?”

“Of course not, Mistress,” I said with mock contrition, glancing up inquiringly at the sobriquet.

Sherlock gave a minute nod of approval and something like the ghost of a smirk.

It was definitely a roleplay, and I wasn’t the only one enjoying myself.

I sped up my movements, and when I had finished applying the polish, I caught her ogling my breasts.

Sherlock extended her feet slightly.

I pulled back and took up the brush.

I continued to feel the heat of her stare as I buffed the leather. She petted my hair, too, and grunted a rare encouragement.

When next I looked up at Sherlock, my body was warm and wanting. “Mistress?”

“Yes, pet. Whatever you want, the answer is ‘yes.’”

I straightened my torso. Then I inched forward on my knees, spreading them until they were just outside Sherlock’s boots. Sherlock moved her feet together. I readjusted. Sherlock pushed her feet out a bit more.

Then, finally, I was straddling the boots at a good angle. I looked up, needing more reassurance.

“Mistress?”

“Yes.”

I yanked the front of my vest down until my breasts were exposed and hooked the white material under them. I closed my eyes.

“That’s right,” urged Sherlock.

I kissed each of Sherlock’s knees and whispered,

“Mistress, may I come?”

“Yes. But only for me.”

With my bare breasts crushed to Sherlock’s knees and the gap between my legs filled with the boots, I began to rut. It felt as good as I’d imagined, but my body was always a fickle creature.

“I don’t know, Mistress,” I whined. “I might not be able to come.”

“Bare your wild heart to me, little thief, let it bleed with mine.”

I quickly peeled the straps of my vest down and cupped my breasts and lifted them up to her as if in offering.

“Beautiful. Such a beautiful thrall. Spread your legs wider. What you gain is immaterial. You will polish the boots with the rag of your body until it is limp and soiled. You will not stop until I say so.”

God, her voice. I was half-convinced she was enthralling me.

I resumed my rutting and came with a series of short, clipped cries.

When I’d caught my breath, I said,

“Mistress.”

I looked up at her, my eyes half-lidded.

Sherlock froze, and so did my heart. It was too close to what might be and might have been.

“So beautiful. Thank you. We’re done, John. Come back to me.”

Her words were a splash of cold water.

I looked down. The bottom half of my vest and the centre of my pants were stained with black polish. I pulled up the straps of the vest and tucked my breasts back in and asked,

“How was it?”

“Outstanding, but too, uh, singular an indulgence for daily use, I think.”

“Special occasion?”

“Special occasion.”

“I agree. I think I’m done for. Would you like to come upstairs?”

I rarely invited Sherlock to my bed, but I needed the reassurance that I had not pressed her too far.

“Yes, but may I change first?”

“Of course.” 

Sherlock clapped her hands.

POOF!

When the smoke cleared, Sherlock was gone.

Her clothes were piled neatly in seat of her armchair, and her boots were before me.

A tiny mewl emanated from the left boot. I peered inside.

“Oh.” I gently lifted her out of the boot and held her up. “Cat, yes, but I don’t think you’ve ever been a kitten. Oh, look at you. You’re adorable. So sweet. Little pink nose. Little whiskers.” I tucked Sherlock into the top of my vest, holding her against my breasts. I petted her head with two fingers.

Sherlock’s little tail curl round her little body. She purred against me, and I held her tenderly to my heart as I got to my feet and moved toward the stairs. 

“Let’s go to bed, Puss in Boots.”


	2. Menophilia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feeding night at 221b. Oral sex. Menstrual blood drinking.
> 
> For Kinktober 2020: Day 8:Menophilia

Weeks later, we were on the floor before the fire. A soft furry rug of a dull red colour was underneath us, one we’d taken to using for this occasion. A pillow was under my head. I untied the sash of my dressing gown and parted the sides.

“I’m sore.”

Sherlock’s eyes danced over my bare skin, then met my gaze. “I’ll give you something for that. Several somethings, in fact, in close and long succession, what I believe in the pharmaceutical world is called ‘extended release.’”

Sherlock moved up my body and kissed my lips softly, chastely. “I adore you, little thief.” Her lips were dry and chapped, and her ordinary pallor had already begun to take on the grey tone of prolonged abstinence. She trembled, and I knew it was not from lust or love but from simple need and weakness. “One sip and your discomfort will vanish on the wings of the dove. You aren’t cold?”

It was her one blind spot.

I shook my head. “Fire’s warm.”

“Good.”

With a whoosh, the blaze took on infernal proportions behind the grate. 

“You know, Carmilla bit Laura,” I remarked as Sherlock was kissing down my body.

“Carmilla was a hack. I could bite you if you wanted. We’ve done it often enough.” She reached my belly and nuzzled it. “But not tonight, I think. Not if you’re sore already.”

“You prefer it this way.”

“Yes.” 

My eyelids were heavy curtains. “Then so do I. Drink.”

In a few moments, Sherlock had deftly removed the cup inside me and consumed the blood collected there. As little as it must’ve been, the change in her was instant.

“John.”

Her voice no longer held any strain. It was rich with promise, and the promise was that a long night of pleasure and satiation.

Sherlock put her lips to the folds of my cunt, sending a current of supernatural analgesic through me. The gesture might have been considered reverent had not its initiator deemed herself damned.

My body relaxed. My thighs fell open.

“There.” Sherlock kissed me again. “Better.” Then her tongue pushed inside me, seeking, finding.

I was floating on a soft sea, unaware of anything save her mouth.

The sensation was, in every way, not of this world.

No human tongue could have moved as Sherlock’s did, nor plunder me as thoroughly. She took every drop of discarded blood my body had produced into herself. She tickled the very walls of my womb, stripping them clean. Her tongue might have been many-forked.

It was difficult to know, much less speak, when I was being sacked like a holy city.

But it was a tender sacking. There was the very opposite of pain, comfort and warmth and her fingers twined in mine, mooring me to her harbour, her place of safety.

Haven.

She withdrew her tongue and exhaled a long, ragged breath which vibrated through me. This was her first climax, I knew, but joining as it did pleasure and continued existence, hers was more primeval than my own could ever be.

She turned her attention to my clit.

“Sherlock!”

The first touch always startled me. My body jerked.

Nonplussed, Sherlock hummed, opening me, covering me with her mouth, warming me, waiting for the blood to pulse, tissue swell, the tiny bundle of nerves kindle and begin to send sparks along the webbed network of fibres.

I pulled my hand from hers and sank both my hands in her lustrous mane.

“I’ll fuck your mouth if you aren’t careful.”

She stopped long enough to snort and murmur, her breath hot against the most sensitive part of me. “When have I ever been careful, John?”

A lie. She was careful. With me. Now.

Sherlock’s mouth migrated to my thighs, starting halfway between knee and cunt and licking towards the centre of me.

“More of the other, Sherlock.”

She smiled against my skin, that is, skin that she had made damp with her clever tongue.

“Demanding little thief, aren’t you? Begging, choosing.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I thought you were keen on drinking my blood. I suppose I’ll be off then.” I made a mock movement of protest, as if to wrench myself away from her, which got me exactly what I wanted, which was for Sherlock to pin me tighter to the rug and forcibly spread my legs.

“Yes! Make me yours, Sherlock. Only yours.”

“Gladly.”

Sherlock pounced.

It was then that she began to suck my clit in earnest. With my lower body spread and pinned, she practically dove, head-first inside, knowing how to apply the indirect pressure I enjoyed most. She knew how to tease, too, to draw me to her, to make me beg her for more, which is what I craved, needing her as much as she needed me and being forced to say so aloud.

“Please, Sherlock.”

She was clever in this as in everything else. She knew how to use her tongue, swirling round and round, moving closer and closer…

“Fuck!” I wrenched one of my hands from Sherlock’s head, and she caught it in hers, tight and fast, as I came, bucking into her mouth.

Sherlock hummed me through my first orgasm, until my body had resettled into a new state of languor. Then both of her hands were skimming my lower abdomen, offering wandering, searching caresses.

I put my chin to my chest and opened my eyes long enough to consider the similarities of finding water with a pair of divining sticks. But I was no desert.

“I think you know where you should dig your well.”

Sherlock raised her head at this. “Even better when the well’s already dug and just have to draw the restorative elixir for myself.” She grinned mischievously, opened her mouth, tilted her head back, and lowered her fangs.

She was such was a show-off, but the display sent a shiver down my spine, nevertheless.

“Christ, you’re a vampire!” I said with mock horror.

Her eyes shone bright. “ _Your_ vampire.”


	3. Bloodplay. (Rating: Teen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go to an autumn festival. John gets lured into a corn maze. Rating: Teen
> 
> For the Kinktober 2020: Day 18: Bloodplay - Though this isn't about bloodplay at all, really. It was the best I could do. It's really about playing games with a tiny bit of blood thrown in.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” I gushed as I curled my arm in Sherlock’s and squeezed it.

“Neither can I,” said Sherlock dryly. “It has been a while since I attended an autumn festival in the country.”

“Was the last time the nineteenth century?”

“No, it has been more recent than that. The corn mazes used to hold some appeal. They still do for some of my kind.”

“Doesn’t seem like your kind of fun.”

“Not so much fun as convenience. Sort of like a brunch buffet.”

“Oh, Sherlock!”

Sherlock chuckled. “You asked.”

“Remind me not to go into the corn maze here alone.”

Sherlock stopped and turned towards me. I stopped and turned towards her.

I had a dog-eared copy of _Carmilla_ shoved in my jacket pocket which I had read on the tube and the bus in our journey to the countryside. As our lips met, a line from it intruded.

_She kissed me silently._

When Sherlock pulled away, she was turning up her coat collar and adjusting her scarf.

I said, “’I am sure you have been in love; that there is, at this moment, an affair of the heart going on.’”

She answered without hesitation.

“’I have been in love with no one and never shall, unless it be with you.’”

How beautiful she looked in the moonlight, I thought, but then my eyes drifted from her shining visage to a hand-painted sign. And my joy was instant.

“Apple cider! My favourite!”

* * *

“The more things change, the more they stay the same,” remarked Sherlock as she and I stood before the [tiered display of carved turnips](https://sanspatronymic.tumblr.com/post/631016293080973312/fallbabylon-a-collection-of-carved-turnips-climb).

“They’re adorable, Sherlock!”

“They’re grotesque, John!”

“Did you carve a turnip back in the day?”

“No.”

“I like them,” I took a photo with my phone, “a lot. C’mon, let’s check out the pumpkin carvings. Some of them are very funny. Then I want to get some more cider. And a toffee apple.”

“After you,” said Sherlock, holding back the flap of the tent.

“Aren’t these hilarious, Sherlock?”

Sherlock hummed as she strolled along the benches with the display of carved pumpkins. She stopped when she came to the last one.

“I don’t even know who that is,” I said, looking over her shoulder, “Probably some politician.”

“It might be Thucydides.”

“Who?”

“Tory.”

“Ugh. Well, I’m ready for some more cider.”

* * *

We browsed the stalls as I munched my toffee apple, Sherlock gallantly holding my cup of cider. We passed the one with the experiments in creative taxidermy and moved on to a stall selling jewelry. The vendor sprang from his chair as we approached and said in a theatrical voice,

“’Will your ladyships be pleased to buy an amulet against the oupire which is going like the wolf, I hear, through these woods?’”

My eyes widened. “What in the world?”

Sherlock tugged at my pocket, the corner of _Carmilla_ was sticking out.

“Oh, you’re very observant,” I said, smiling. “And well read.”

The vendor beamed. “Thank you. How about this one?” He indicated a pendant on a leather strap.

I turned to Sherlock. “Will this ward off the oupire?” I teased.

Sherlock leaned close and examined the oblong lip. “Vellum. Encircled with thorns and inscribed with cabalistic ciphers and diagrams. Perfect. How much?”

Sherlock paid. Then she held her purchase up with one hand and gripped the pendant with the other. She brought the pendant to her mouth and bit.

When she released the pendant, there was a single hole punched in the centre. Sherlock turned to face the vendor, with mouth open and fangs dropped, and asked,

“Got anything to file these down?”

* * *

“Show me yours, Sherlock.”

“John.”

“Come on. Show me your corn husk doll.”

“You first.”

I turned round and held out my craft and waggled it. “Corn husk Sherlock!”

Sherlock smiled and said, “Good Lord.”

“With Belstaff and curls and teeny tiny corn husk fangs because, you know!”

“I know.”

“It’s yours!”

“Thank you.” She took it and slipped it into her coat pocket. “Here.”

Sherlock drew her hand from behind her back.

“Oh, Sherlock.”

The corn husk bird was beautiful.

“It’s a raven,” said Sherlock. “Yours.”

“Oh, I love him. I shall call him ‘Nevermore.’ Thank you. You know, you’re very good with your hands.”

She raised one eyebrow.

“You know what I mean.”

Sherlock threw her arm around my shoulders and kissed the top of my head. “You want more cider, don’t you?”

“Yes!”

* * *

“Sherlock, we have to go home before you get us thrown out and banned for life!”

“It’s not my fault that the jar of corn kernels is so easily estimated.”

John giggled.

“Or that the fortune-teller is exceeding unqualified for the role.”

John snorted. Then she sighed. “This place closes in twenty minutes. It’s a shame we didn’t make it to the corn maze. Uh, I definitely need to go to the loo before we make the trek home. I’ve had far too much apple cider tonight.”

“I’ll wait for you here.”

* * *

I waited, but John did not return. I went looking for her, but I could not find her. The place was closing; the staff were already herding stragglers toward the exits. 

Where was John?

I spied the entrance to the corn maze.

She wouldn’t have gone in alone, would she?

My concern grew.

As I approached the entrance to the maze myself, two staff were swiftly, but not violently, disavowed of their intent to halt me.

I entered the maze, nostrils flared, searching the miasma for a hint of the fragrance I knew best.

John’s blood.

I listened for her cries.

I went a short distance, doubting my instincts, wondering if John were, in fact, waiting for me somewhere, when I saw something that erased all doubt.

A corn husk raven perched on a bent stalk of dry corn.

Was it a game? Hide-and-seek?

I took the raven and put it in my pocket and carried on.

After a few twists and turns, I found John’s copy of _Carmilla_ , propped against a stalk. I smiled and added it to the collection in my pocket.

I continued, thinking that John was keen on a little dalliance in the corn field. I could easily be persuaded in that regard. I’d spent enough time feeding in a corn maze, fucking in one would be a novelty. And if John wanted it, well, that was that.

A few minutes later, I spied the amulet hanging from a stalk. It had the puncture of my fang through the centre of the gibberish on the vellum.

I stopped smiling.

It was faint, very faint, but somewhere, John was bleeding. A bit. I looked at the amulet again. The circle of thorns had been removed.

Was she still playing with me? Like breadcrumbs?

Blood crumbs. 

Regardless, I would follow the trail. And I did.

At the first stalk where John had smeared her blood on the husk, I felt the change in atmosphere. It was magnetic. Whatever it was, it would draw souls less subtle than mine towards it.

Not menacing exactly, more charismatic. 

Nevertheless, nostrils wide, I began to run, following John’s scent, fearing she was being enthralled, enchanted, or otherwise mesmerised. The party responsible would rue their decision; of that, I would make certain.

When I reached the centre, I gasped.

John was in a white flowy frock on a kind of altar constructed from hay bales. Her wrists and ankles were bound with strips of white linen.

A figure with the head of a bull stood beside her, its pale, muscular chest was partially covered in a deep red cloak which was fastened with a huge bronze medallion.

The figure held a dagger, raised high above John.

I sniffed.

I wasn’t angry, but I was very, very annoyed.

“Be gone!” I bellowed and stretched out my hand. “Be gone, Minotaur!”

The minotaur jerked as if hit by an invisible arrow. The dagger fell to the ground.

The minotaur then turned and ran, disappearing through one of the gaps in the corn on the other side.

I rushed to John. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. You weren’t kidding about corn mazes!”

I bent and bit through John’s bonds with my teeth. I rubbed the skin beneath and was relieved to feel barely an indentation. I ran my hands all over John, checking for injury. I breathed deeply, too.

“Your clothes?”

“Oh, over there.”

I looked behind me where John’s clothes were folded neatly atop John’s boots in the corner of the open space.

“Your blood,” I said.

John held up her hand. “I just pricked my thumb with the thorns of the amulet. I could feel myself being, I don’t know, pulled in. It started out as a lark. I thought I’d leave you a couple of clues, and we’d have a cuddle in the spooky maze, but at some point, things changed. I could turn back. I panicked at first, but I knew you’d track my blood.”

“Good thinking. You weren’t hurt, John?”

“He didn’t even touch me. At least not physically. My clothes were exchanged without any molestation, and then I was here.”

I helped her off the hay bales and led her to her clothes.

“Do minotaurs exist, Sherlock?” she asked as she changed clothing. I turned my back to her and considered lying but then thought better of it.

“No.”

“Then what was he?”

“A monster.” I felt her gaze on me. I turned back to face her and handed her the corn husk raven and the copy of _Carmilla_. I tried to return the amulet.

“I don’t want to ward off oumpires!” she cried, her voice quivering for the first time.

Carmilla was right about one thing. I had to obey the irresistible laws of my strength and weakness.

John was both.

I took her in my arms and held her tightly.

* * *

Later that night, I curled against Sherlock on the sofa. A fire was raging in the fireplace. I barely registered Sherlock stroking my hair and kissing my temple and fussing with the warm blanket.

“Are you certain you don’t want tea?”

I shook my head.

After a while, she broke the silence.

“John?”

“I don’t think I can talk about it without hurting your feelings.”

Sherlock huffed. “Try me.”

“You might not care, but I do.”

Sherlock sighed. “Then why don’t you tell Nevermore. I’ll just eavesdrop.”

I shot Sherlock a look but addressed my comments to the corn husk raven which was hopping along the arm of the sofa of its own magical volition.

“I think there’s something wrong with me. Why wasn’t I afraid tonight? This half-man, half-bull lured me into the centre of a corn maze and was about to sacrifice me on an altar, and I was, like, ‘cool.’” I shook my head and rubbed my face with my hand. “Sometimes I have weird dreams, like the one where I’m at a skeleton orgy. I should’ve been terrified tonight, but more than anything, I was worried that my girlfriend was going to be annoyed at me keeping her waiting.”

“John.” Sherlock kissed my shoulder. Then she sighed deeply. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You are just very sensitive to certain atmospheres and energies. I don’t know. Maybe you’ve always been this way, or maybe it’s developed as a result of our association.”

“If I was very sensitive, why would I even go in that maze? Wouldn’t I sense what was lurking at the centre? Self-preservation alone would keep me out of it.”

“John…”

My eyes went to the dog-eared copy of _Carmilla_ , then I looked at Sherlock directly. “And why weren’t you feral with rage? Clawing the bull to pieces?” Suddenly, I knew the answer. “Sherlock, you knew I wasn’t in any danger, too!”

“I wasn’t certain. You can never be certain about these things.”

“Oh my God! You know what it was! You knew it wouldn’t hurt me. You don’t trust anyone. OH MY GOD! MYCROFT!”

Sherlock wouldn’t meet my gaze. She plucked at the blanket. “You are sensitive, John. And you are open to our world. You didn’t feel fear because there wasn’t any reason to.”

“Mycroft was going to kill me, though!”

“Was she?”

“What was she doing then? Dress rehearsal for some cult ritual later night?”

“She was probably feeding, I told you many vampires prefer such places, and you showed up unexpectedly and well after dessert, and she decided to be dramatic. It was an improvised scene conjured up out of her perverse Victorian imagination.”

“Did you know she was going to be there? Is that why you agreed to come with me?”

“No. Sheer coincidence. They do happen. But I suspected she was about before the end. That unusually carved pumpkin tipped me off. There aren’t many, alive or otherwise, who would think to carve the face of the author of _The History of the Peloponnesian War_ on a vegetable marrow!”

“You said it was a Tory politician!”

“I lied.”

“Did Mycroft enthrall me? I felt something, Sherlock.”

“Mycroft might have used a light spell to draw you in, but it wouldn’t have been anything stronger or more enduring than a very clever and appealing television advertisement. I promise.”

“How do you know she wasn’t going to drink from me?”

“Because she knows damn well her existence would be over if she did, and she’s extremely annoying but not suicidal. Also, you shed your blood thrice in the maze. A small amount but still. She definitely smelled you coming. She knows your blood scent, not as well as I do, of course, but it wouldn’t have escaped her notice. And if she could resist temptation so easily, it was only because she was already well-slaked.”

“Am I a cat’s paw between you two?”

“You might have been once upon a time. But I think she genuinely likes you as much as she can like anyone.”

“Should I tell her next time she was to play dress up to just ask nicely?”

Sherlock chuckled. “I would very much like to see her face when you do it.” Then she felt serious. “You’re rather perfect, John. Or at least perfect for me.” She pulled me close. “Carmilla talked rot sometimes. Love isn’t always selfish. Even among monsters. But enough about tonight and silly minotaurs,” her eyes lit wickedly, “I want to hear about this skeleton orgy.” 


	4. Xenophilia.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In her dreams, John's a bit of a monsterfucker. Tentacle sex, vaginal sex with a satyr in a children's nursery, and a skeleton orgy. 
> 
> So three dreams: 1. tentacles, 2. satyr in a children's nursery, 3. skeleton orgy. Inspired by these **very NSFW!!** images 1. [tentacles](https://sanspatronymic.tumblr.com/post/613931233155678208/michaelmoonsbookshop-mr-cuttlefishs-love), 2. [satyr in a children's nursery](https://sanspatronymic.tumblr.com/post/622218993472815104/its-a-thankless-job-sending-awful-images-to-my), 3. [skeleton orgy](https://sanspatronymic.tumblr.com/post/622399260408922112/scribe4haxan-eros-and-thanatos-nd-oil-on). 
> 
> For 2020 Kinktober Day 27: Xenophilia.
> 
> The plan is for one more chapter and we'll call it a Hallowe'en.

“Are you ready?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes,” I replied

“All right then. Sweet dreams, John.”

“Thank you.”

I laid down on the sofa, tucked the blanket round me snugly, and closed my eyes.

* * *

As with most dreams, I didn’t know how I got there or how I was able to breathe underwater.

All I knew was that I was naked, engulfed in a tight, many-limbed embrace, and that the gaze of two bright saucer-like eyes was fixed on me.

I was awkwardly petting the large bulbous head in which the eyes were socketed. I say ‘awkwardly’ because the skin was rubbery and not exactly made for smooth caresses.

Nevertheless, I tried.

I wriggled and writhed but the tentacles held me fast.

“Oh, dear, Mister Cuttlefish,” I cried, my exclamations coming out as air bubbles, “I suppose there’s nothing for it but for you to have your wicked cephalopodic way with me.”

Mister Cuttlefish bubbled his confirmation of this inevitable plan.

Soon, I was thoroughly tangled in a bed of oozing tentacles.

Now I was grateful for the rubbery skin because it meant I could fix myself by the pads of my fingers, not unlike a treefrog to a leaf, to the cuttlefish. It was reassuring to be tethered, no matter how thinly, to something solid while limbs seemed to be in continuous motion, slipping and slithering and sliding about and inside my body. 

They were everywhere, moving across my skin, coating me with the lubricant which issued from their pores, teasing my nipples, circling and massaging my breasts, filling my cunt and arse.

As they fucked me, they seemed to be pushing me, up, up, up, until finally, the shadows about me disappeared.

As I burst through to the surface, I gasped and let go of the head.

Two hands caught me by the wrists.

“There you are,” said Sherlock with a grin. “I’ve been trolling for you.” 

She was in a small rowboat. She pulled.

My head, neck, and arms lifted out of the water, but my lower half was still in entangled.

“Oh, Sherlock.”

“Good?”

“Mm.”

There was a single stationary tentacle buried in my arse, but the one in my cunt was thrusting while two more held my legs open.

“On ‘three,’” said Sherlock.

I moaned. “One, two, THREE!”

SPLASH!

I was out of the water and in the little boat with Sherlock.

I looked around. Nothing but water.

I giggled. So did Sherlock. She picked up the ends of the oars. “On to the next one?”

“Why not?”

* * *

In a blink, I was no longer in a boat, I was in a child’s nursery, judging by the pink-and-yellow wallpaper. I looked about. There was a crib but no child. There was a full-length mirror in the corner. I stepped towards it and saw a cartoonish caricature of myself in a short pink dress and matching hairbows.

I giggled. Then behind me, a figure appeared in the doorway.

Horse ears, bearded face and hirsute chest, and very large, very erect cock.

“Are you the baby-snatcher?” I cried in a voice a near octave higher than my own.

“Yes,” the satyr rumbled. “Who are you?”

“I’m the baby-sitter! Take me instead,” I panted, throwing my arms behind me and lifting my chest until I almost burst from the top of it.

With that, the satyr swept me up in its muscular arms and sat me down on its cock.

My eyes seemed to bulge a little with the stretching. It bounced me as if I were a doll.

I clung to its hairy shoulders while I watched its long horse tail twitch excitedly. It neighed in my ear.

“Hullo,” said a voice from the doorway.

We turned our heads. There was Sherlock waving a bright red apple.

“Fetch!” she called and threw the apple down the hall behind her.

“WHOA!” I yelled. I flapped my arms as I was launched in the air. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the satyr stampede out the door.

I landed neatly and nicely in Sherlock’s arms.

“How was that?” she asked.

“In theory, sexy. In execution, a horse of another colour.”

Sherlock giggled. “All right. I think we have time for one more before you wake up. Skeleton orgy?”

“Yes, please.”

* * *

“Oh, yes,” I groaned even before I fully aware of my surroundings. Somewhere Saint-Saëns’ "Danse Macabre" was playing.

I was on the floor, on my knees, straddling a skeleton who was groping my breasts. There were red curtains and a very thick red rug.

I threw my head back and bent my arms at the elbow and put my hands behind my head, lifting my chest into the touch.

I groaned again.

The music, I realised, was mixed with the sighs and groans of others, and when I looked over my shoulders, I saw on a large canopy bed other bodies, bodies with skin and breasts and V’s of pubic hair, being fucked as I was, by skeletons, in combinations and permutations which made me even wetter.

A skeleton approached and knelt and slid a hand under me.

“Oh, oh, oh!” I cried as I felt hard, cold, unyielding fingers, one, two, three, slide inside me, another tickled my clit.

My pleasure built.

“I’m going to come!” I cried.

The human voices in the room replied in a plaintive chorus. “So am I! So am I!”

The skeletons simply rattled.

As soon as my climax hit, I felt a cold, sobering breeze waft in, as if from an open window.

“Lots of boners,” observed Sherlock flatly.

And with that all, the skeletons disassembled into piles, and the other humans vanished.

Sherlock gave me her arm, and slowly, shakily, I got to my feet.

“So, what’s the verdict?” asked Sherlock.

“I’m a bit of a monsterfucker.”

Sherlock nodded, then grinned. “But you’re _my_ monsterfucker.”

“You aren’t a monster, Sherlock.” I patted her arm. She removed her coat and draped it round my shoulders. “But skeleton orgies _are_ rather nice.”


	5. Role Reversal. (Rating: Gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John got to a ball as Cinderella and a vampire, respectively. Fluff. Rating: Gen.
> 
> For 2020 Kinktober Day 27: Role Reversal. 
> 
> This is the last chapter of this collection. I hope you enjoyed a Hallowe'en romp with these two. Thanks so much for reading!

“Are you certain, Sherlock?”

“I wouldn’t suggest it otherwise, John. Unless you don’t want to.”

“I don’t mind at all, but won’t it be traumatic? For you, I mean.”

“How so?”

“Reliving your conversion or turning or whatever you call it.”

“Oh.” Sherlock tilted her head and tapped her lips with her fingers in contemplation. “I don’t think so. In every respect and aspect, you are nothing like the fiend who made me a vampire. You have been candid with me about your fantasies. I thought I would return the confidence.”

“And since you have taken me into your confidence, I have some news for you. I wasn’t going to mention it because I was certain you wouldn’t be interested,” I went to the bin in the kitchen and retrieved something and held it up, “I was invited to Hallowe’en ball. Fancy dress, etcetera.”

Sherlock took the card from my hand and studied it. “Oh, John. This is perfect. Cinders and her vampire shall go to the ball!”

* * *

“How do I look?” I asked as I fussed with my cape, which, unfortunately, dragged on the floor.

There was a bright, teasing light in Sherlock’s eye and a smirk on her perfectly painted lips. “Like a very short, very butch, very British Bela Lugosi.”

I giggled. She giggled.

“You actually look perfect, John.”

“Are you certain you’re not Elsa from _Frozen_?” I asked. Sherlock was blonde and in a sparkly ice blue ball gown.

“No, I’m Cinderella!” Sherlock held up her skirts so I could see glass slippers.

“You are one gorgeous princess, my love!”

I leaned up. Sherlock leaned down.

Our lips met very tentatively and very chastely because neither of us wanted to smear our make-up.

“Shall we?” I asked gallantly, offering Sherlock my arm. She took it with a smile.

* * *

As I guided Sherlock across the floor in a stately waltz, I asked her, “You know, leFanu’s Carmilla did some of her hunting at balls like this. Are there real vampires here, Sherlock?”

“Oh, yes. They see me, and I see them. A few are with thralls, but most are hunting. They won’t bother you, John.”

“I should hope not.”

“Most of them are amused by your choice of costume and my choice of you. Most will assume you are enthralled. If they knew the truth, they would be very, very envious, perhaps dangerously so.”

“I count myself lucky, too. I’m with the belle of the ball.”

“Oh, John. I’ve been called Elsa a dozen times.”

“You should ‘let it go.’”

Sherlock groaned.

* * *

“Almost midnight,” I observed.

“Yes, I’m ready to go when you are.”

“All right. Home before our carriage turns into a pumpkin.”

At the stroke of midnight, Sherlock and I were posed theatrically on the sofa, and I was attempting, and failing, to sink my plastic fangs into Sherlock’s neck.

“I vahnt to suck your blahd!” I cried. “Moo-hoo-ha-ha!”

“Oh, no! Oh, no!” giggled Sherlock, holding up her hands in mock defense. “Not the dreaded oumpire!”

It might have worked but the plastic teeth kept wiggling and slipped just as held my mouth wide to bite, and I kept getting tangled up in the blasted cape.

After the third aborted attempt, I sighed, “This isn’t working.”

Sherlock’s giggles turned to raucous laughter. “No.” She shook her head, sniffing and chortling. “Not working at all.” 

I spit the plastic teeth on the floor and took Sherlock once more into my arms and nibbled gently at Sherlock’s neck with my own teeth. “How’s that?”

“Much better.” She hummed contentedly. “You know, John, you make an absolutely horrible vampire.”

“True.”

“And I couldn’t be more pleased about that.”

We kissed, smearing my red with her pink.

When I pulled away, I surveyed her beautiful face and coiffure and said, “You know, Sherlock, leFanu’s _Carmilla_ got so many things wrong, but it got one thing right.”

“What’s that?” asked Sherlock with a smirk.

“The fun of playing with a vampire’s hair. May I?”

“While it’s blonde?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely.”

We re-settled ourselves on the sofa, Sherlock’s head in my lap, and I lifted and smoothed and caressed and braided and unbraided Sherlock’s hair while she hummed a cheery Beethoven’s Ninth.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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